Bedroom Tango
by Deklava
Summary: Watching Mycroft and Irene perform a hot tango at the British Ambassador's Ball in Buenos Aires, Sherlock no longer wants to be celibate. Rated M for Holmescest and lots of other things...
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: **contains sibling incest.

* * *

_British Ambassador's Ball, Buenos Aires, Argentina_

As he watched them glide across the dance floor, Sherlock experienced awe, envy, and lust: all feelings that he'd long considered foreign to a sociopath, even high-functioning ones. They sent fissures through his composure and made him feel unstable, even insane.

Mycroft and Irene looked magnificent. Sherlock wasn't the only one who thought so: heads turned as the Ice Man and the Woman moulded their bodies together in a tango that was part dance, part mating ritual. Their eyes, afire with arousal, were locked as they used touch and whisper and music to stimulate and provoke each other.

The elder Holmes brother was tall and regal in a tailored tuxedo that made his diet-diminished form appear even thinner. His slicked-back hair gleamed with expensive pomade, but the effect was dashing instead of greasy. White gloves, brilliantly polished shoes, and a confident smile completed the suave image.

Irene wore a beaded black gown that showed off her lithe figure. Her wavy dark hair was piled atop her head and held in place by two diamond-crusted combs- an anniversary gift from Mycroft. Blood-red lips pulled back over pearly teeth, making her look feral as she snaked her long legs around Mycroft's and ground her breasts against his shirt.

The other dancers at the British ambassador's ball slowed down, stared, and gradually moved aside, yielding the entire floor to the powerhouse couple. Their dancing ability was like their combined intelligence - without equal.

Sweat beaded Sherlock's pale brow, thanks to the night's humidity and the desire that heated his blood. He brushed it away and retreated behind a pillar, not wanting them to see him. He'd told Mycroft he had no intention of going to "that boring event", but that was before the elder Holmes had emerged from his room in their shared suite dressed like a modern Valentino. When Irene showed up, looking every inch like the Dominatrix who nearly brought England to its knees, Sherlock's response was so visceral that he couldn't stay away.

Irene lifted one leg, hooked it around her partner's waist, and slyly ground her pelvis against his. When Mycroft's hands dropped to her arse and squeezed tightly, Sherlock's own skin burned and ached. He realized that he wanted to be touched like that.

By both of them.

He couldn't watch any more. His cock, which had been half-hard since the tango began, now prodded aggressively against the zip of his tailored trousers. Feeling a wetness spreading across his pants front, he hurried to blend in with a group of people heading for the exit.

Sherlock didn't know that as he escaped into the sultry Argentina night, Irene's eyes were on him.

* * *

Sherlock retained his composure until the suite door clicked shut behind him. Then he sank to his knees on the thick carpet, exhaled loudly, and massaged his crotch, which was now rock hard. When his legs felt steadier, Sherlock made his way over to the sofa, sat down, and flung his head back.

"Fuck," he groaned. How- and why- had this happened? In one night, Mycroft had gone from being a controlling brother and part-time arch enemy to a fantasy lover. And Irene- he'd always admired her rapier-sharp mind and survival instinct, and her beauty was unquestionable, but women had never been his area. Now he desperately wanted to bury his angular face in her breasts and explore her moist core with his long white fingers. Desire was so dangerous: it made him want the previously unimaginable.

"Traitor," he hissed at the bulge in his trousers before undoing his belt, hurling it across the room, and yanking both trousers and pants down to his knees. Closing his eyes, he took himself in hand and began stroking roughly. Maybe after he got off, things would make sense once again.

As his cock slid through his tightly closed fist, Sherlock struggled to suppress his moans. Heat surged through his loins, spiking each time his thumb glided over his cockhead. Gripping himself harder at the first hint of oncoming orgasm, he lifted his arse off the sofa cushion and increased the speed of his hip movements. He wanted to come so explosively that the force would banish this new, tormented persona forever and allow his old, unflappable self to reassert itself.

Almost there.

Almost… there.

Almost….

Then hands were on him, one clamping over his mouth while another gripped the base of his cock, snuffing out his climax before it could roar into existence.

"Ah-ah, brother mine," Mycroft's voice purred in his ear, making him shiver.

"Poor boy." Irene's lips brushed against his flushed cheek. "It looks like being a virgin has gotten boring at last."

* * *

Sherlock knew he should break loose, grab for his trousers, and shout at both of them for sneaking up on him, but unsatisfied lust left him trembling and needy. When Mycroft released his mouth, he whimpered, "Please."

He turned his head and stared at his brother. The right words wouldn't come, so he pleaded with his eyes. Mycroft read him in an instant and quickly took control.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "You're so beautiful, little brother. Relax- we've got you."

Sherlock could have wept with relief, and nearly did. Mycroft and Irene _knew_ what he was feeling, and how to get him through it. One was a Holmes, the other one should have been. They instinctively understood what he needed, without frustrating explanations and discussions complicating and delaying things.

All he had to do was let them.

The elder Holmes took off his gloves, laid them on the coffee table, and slid across the sofa until his hip was flush against Sherlock's. He then leaned over until he was partly straddling his brother's naked thigh and took Sherlock's face in both hands. The younger man's fingers gripped Mycroft's suit jacket tightly as their lips collided. A warm tongue that tasted of Cognac and fine cigars coaxed Sherlock's mouth open and swept all over the interior, making him moan and start frantically rutting against Mycroft's leg.

Irene, who had released his cock, joined them on the sofa. Her dainty but strong hands grasped his thigh and tugged, interrupting the frottage and forcing his legs apart. Sherlock fought her intervention and tried to continue the friction, desperate because he _knew_ that a few more seconds of intense rubbing would relieve the ache in his balls and the hardness that was now bordering on painful.

"Easy, little one," she urged. "Not so fast."

Sherlock growled. He WANTED fast. The warmth that started pooling in his lower belly when he watched them dance was now a raging fire, and he craved release as violently as he'd once needed cocaine. When he let go of his brother's jacket to try shoving her away, Irene snatched his wrists with surprising strength and pinned them to the cushions.

"I know," she cooed in a tone both sympathetic and lecherous. "You've been awakened, and it hurts, doesn't it? But let us show you how wonderful sex can be."

Sherlock whimpered in frustration. He didn't want to be shown anything that would take more than five seconds to accomplish. He opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft grasped his chin and silenced him with a kiss that was rougher than the last one. The older man's elbow brushed across the head of Sherlock's aching penis, making him jerk and struggle so fiercely that he nearly dislodged both of his seducers.

His cries were loud and his limbs flailed, but he _trusted _them, trusted them to understand that these outer demonstrations of rebellion did not indicate withdrawn consent. His impulsive nature was desperate, confused, and excited and needed something to fight against, so they gave it to him: Mycroft forcefully positioned him with his upper body on the sofa and knees on the floor while Irene used his own tie to secure his wrists against his lower back. When he hissed at her and tried to rub his erection against the cushion edge, Mycroft's palm descended heavily onto his upturned arse, resulting in a loud _crack_.

"No more of that, little brother," he warned.

"I need to come," Sherlock moaned. The pain from the blow spread to his crotch, stimulating already-tense nerves and sending more pre-ejaculate dripping from his swinging cock.

"And you will," Irene assured him. "But when we let you."

He heard the click of her handbag's clasp opening, and tried to see what she was doing, but Mycroft's fingers held his head in place while simultaneously caressing pressure points on his scalp. Sherlock relaxed into the touch, letting this new pleasure take the edge off his need, until he felt Irene's hand grasping his penis at the base.

"What are you-" he started to say, but before he could finish, a leather cock ring gripped his erection, keeping orgasm at bay. "What the hell?"

"Language!" Mycroft scolded. He smacked Sherlock's arse again, sending more tremors through the younger man's body. Sherlock had been spanked by his older brother in the past- after their father died, when their mother was unable to handle him- but it had never felt so _good_ before. Craving more stimulation, he grunted, "Fuck you!"

"Really, now." Mycroft seized his jaw and forced him to look up. Their stares met. "It appears that you've collected your wits somewhat."

"No matter if he has," Irene said. "We'll soon have him begging for mercy. And MORE than twice."

Sherlock was about to remind her that he'd never demand mercy from anyone, but his intended speech was promptly cancelled when a slender, lubricated finger penetrated his rear and glided across his prostate.

"Oh," he gasped. His tight sphincter closed greedily down on the probing digit as his stomach muscles tightened and thighs shook. He'd read about the mind-blowing pleasure that this type of caress could incite, but words didn't do it justice. There was no description for this… this….

He rubbed himself over the cushion again. It felt so good, even if the cock ring kept him from coming.

Sherlock quickly learned that neither Mycroft nor Irene expected him to reciprocate. At least not yet. The wrist bindings served a dual purpose- to prevent accidental injury during his earlier thrashing and remind him that he was in good hands, and that there was no need to direct or control. When a soft blindfold was tied over his eyes just before they assisted him off the sofa and into Mycroft's bedroom, the feelings of surrender left him gasping.

* * *

**A/N: **Kudos and love to my faithful beta, **chasingriver**.


	2. Chapter 2

They laid him face-up on the four-poster bed, wrists secured to the corners via Mycroft's silk ties. Mouths glided over his naked skin, sometimes just breathing lightly, other times inflicting warm, wet licks on his nipples, cock, and other places where a single, orphaned touch can lead to insanity. He was on the verge of begging, but Mycroft noticed it and spared his pride by swallowing him down to the base.

"Oh, God!" he cried. The blindfold hindered his vision, but he could imagine the scene only too well: his normally immaculate older brother sprawled on the mattress, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, gripping his cock in finely manicured fingers and sucking with the same skill and finesse he applied to all his undertakings. Before the blindfold was applied, Sherlock had seen that Mycroft's own erection was distorting his trouser silhouette, and he wondered if he would get a chance to touch, taste, and explore.

"Look at the two of you," Irene said from somewhere to Sherlock's left. She sounded amused. "Playing so nicely for once. Mycroft, darling, maybe this is the way to accomplish world peace."

Mycroft paused in his ministrations. "I concur. Preventing wars by advocating incest- is there a Nobel prize category for that?"

They both laughed, and even Sherlock grinned quickly. Then Mycroft's tongue was laving over his swollen flesh again and all coherent thought vanished. He thrust his narrow hips off the bed, ramming his impressive length down his brother's throat, but before he could bring them back down, he felt Mycroft hook one strong arm behind his knees and pull his legs toward his chest, nearly doubling him in half. At the same time, Irene stuffed a pillow under his lower back, grasped his arse cheeks, and spread them wide.

The first glide of her tongue across his hole caused Sherlock to squeal and renew his struggles, although he definitely didn't want to escape. Mycroft merely tightened the grip on his legs and continued to suck him without breaking stride, gleefully contributing to what was quickly turning into stimulation overload. Sherlock's imprisoned erection spilled fluid all over his clenching belly as the Woman licked his virgin entrance slowly and lazily before dipping her tongue inside.

She'd already penetrated him before, with two fingers, but this was higher on the intensity scale. That wet, squirming muscle taunted him, opening him up and scalding nerves that were already overheated. He let out a ragged cry as she fucked him with her mouth, lips soft and smooth against his trembling skin.

Mycroft lifted his head at the noise. "Feels wonderful, doesn't it, Sherlock?" he purred, hand continuing to slide up and down his brother's cock. "She's going to prepare you so well for me. Then I'm going to fuck you. Hard. Would you like that?"

"Is… is it going to feel like everything you've done to me so far?" Sherlock stammered.

Mycroft's now-husky voice responded, "Better."

"Then please, yes. Please."

Irene drew back. "I think it's your turn, big brother. Mummy would like to watch now."

Sherlock waited with mingled lust and curiousity as Mycroft released him and shuffled down the mattress. Irene straddled the young man's waist: he knew she was naked when her warm buttocks settled down on him and he felt slick dampness from her mound pressing into his belly. Desire didn't soften her in the slightest: her grip on his still-raised knees was firm and the teasing, too-light pressure she applied as she stroked his cock was almost cruel.

Sherlock heard a tube click open just before a lubricated finger –thicker, blunter than Irene's- traced teasingly around his hole. When he thrust toward it impatiently, Mycroft laughed and pressed slowly through the tight muscle ring, which had relaxed somewhat thanks to Irene's ministrations. It slid into his body until Mycroft's knuckles were perfectly aligned with the split of his buttocks, and paused there before gliding in and out, the squelching of lube marking its progress. When the slippery digit withdrew Sherlock whimpered in protest, but the sound turned into a cry of satisfaction when Mycroft penetrated him again, this time with two fingers.

"Oh," he exclaimed at the added stretch. The aching burn spiked briefly into pain territory when his brother scissored those two fingers, carefully working him open, but at the first sign of tension, Irene applied the _perfect_ amount of pressure on her upward stroke and Mycroft rotated his wrist so that Sherlock's prostate was stimulated with each inward thrust.

"How's it feel, Sherlock?" the elder Holmes queried smugly. As if he didn't already know. Unable to form words now, Sherlock thrust back against those fingers as much as his limited range of motion could permit, until he finally managed to stammer, "More."

He felt Irene release his cock and lean forward. A tube clicked open again. "Deep breath, darling," she ordered. When he complied, four fingers plunged into him on the exhale: Mycroft's and hers combined. Together they probed, teased, massaged, and stretched, and for the first time Sherlock truly appreciated that his body was not just transport. It contained so many hidden triggers and pleasure points: his limited experience with masturbation had left him woefully unprepared for this.

"He's ready," Mycroft pronounced in rushed, uneven tones. Sherlock had never heard his brother sound so close to coming undone before.


	3. Chapter 3

The fingers pulled carefully from his now-gaping hole. Irene slid off his stomach and knelt beside him, murmuring softly as she massaged his own pre-come onto his soft belly. Sherlock felt his legs being positioned over his brother's broad shoulders, noting that Mycroft hadn't removed his dress shirt. He wondered briefly if the older man even showered with his clothes on, but then something blunt and slippery was pushing against his entrance, and he wasn't thinking of anything else.

Despite the careful preparation, Sherlock's virgin arse rebelled and squeezed shut. Mycroft was patient but persistent, and soon the head of his penis popped inside. Sherlock gasped and twisted his hips, not sure whether he wanted to fight or encourage his despoiler. Irene tipped the decision in favour of the latter when she started masturbating him again, distracting him from the pain.

"It's so big, isn't it?" she whispered against his ear. "And you're so tight. I thought you were going to break my fingers off. But you want his cock- you're a greedy little slut who just needed a good pounding at last."

Her words confused him, even through the pleasure haze. Slut? How could a virgin be a slut? He opened his mouth to ask, but Mycroft growled, "You're thinking too much, brother mine. I see I'm going much too easy on you."

With a snap of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside his little brother. Sherlock's mouth, which had been geared to ask a question, now reshaped into an O of first shock and pain, then exhilaration. He clenched around Mycroft who, after the initial violent thrust, held still and let him adjust. When the spasms stopped, the elder Holmes pulled partway out, until only the head of his cock remained inside, and then pushed back forcefully. Sherlock cried out, dropped his legs from Mycroft's shoulders to his waist, and held on tight.

He had no time to think, or rationalize, or even _breathe_ as his older brother slammed into him. After the initial adjustment period, Mycroft's rhythm turned punishing, and nearly shoved Sherlock into the headboard with each thrust. Irene, astute as always, halted their coupling long enough to tuck another pillow under Sherlock's back, changing their position and allowing the his prostate to be stimulated with each glide over it.

Sherlock's hands fought their bindings as electric pleasure shot up his spine. "Oh… oh God," he stammered.

Mycroft's lips brushed his, combining their hot breath. "I wish you could see yourself, Sherlock. So sweaty and despoiled and at the mercy of your body instead of your brain. Perfectly lovely."

"Why didn't you tell me it felt like this?" Sherlock gasped back.

"Because I didn't want you to know until you needed it." A warm tongue traced his lips. "Oh, how this suits you. I wish I could take a picture and carry it with me everywhere, tell myself that you're mine. But maybe you wouldn't like that. Maybe you want to be whored around. I know a few associates who would love a chance at your tight arse. Shall I contact them when we're done? There'd be a line-up outside this door when word got around."

"Lovely idea," Irene purred. She had released his cock and Sherlock could feel her body heat, smell her perfume as she stretched out beside him. "Only this time we charge for it. Desperate little sluts like our dear boy here command a premium."

Although the cock ring kept his orgasm back, Sherlock relished the vicious, pressing heat that shoved his mind to the background. "Please… keep talking…"

Mycroft obliged. He closed his mouth over Sherlock's throat, bit down, and panted, "I feel the way your body shakes around my cock as I take you, dear brother. Does it hurt?"

"Not so much… a bit…. HNNGGH!" Sherlock cried out when Mycroft gave a particularly forceful shove. His thighs gripped his brother's waist convulsively.

"It hurts, but you love it, don't you? Maybe you're not meant to be a consulting detective at all. Maybe you should exist for the purpose of being fucked hard by your superiors. Like this."

He grabbed Sherlock's narrow hips hard enough to leave bruises and pounded hard, sending the breath rushing out of the younger man with each plunge. It become obvious that he was close to orgasm when he rocketed in and out of his brother at breakneck speed, hissing something about "So goddamned tight… perfect…"

"Please," Sherlock whimpered. "Let me come."

"Beg for it," Irene ordered. "Say 'mercy'."

"Mercy," he choked.

He felt her fingers at the base of his cock, toying with the ring but not unsnapping it. "Again," she snapped.

"Guhhhh!" Sherlock arched his back, burying his head in the pillow. He just knew that if he didn't get release, he would go insane. "MERCY!"


	4. Chapter 4

Irene removed the cock ring with a smug flourish, and Sherlock's body plunged his mind past the point of no return.

His eyes rolled back in his head and his long white form went rigid as one orgasm after another blasted through him. Having found the threshold of pleasure, he clung to it fiercely, determined to hang on, relishing the way his body quaked through a seemingly endless cycle of contractions, surges, and ecstasy. Touching himself had never been like this, never ripped control from him, never made him beg for "Mercy" when he really meant "More."

Irene stroked the hair off his forehead as the tremors continued. "That's it, dear boy. Come for us. So sweet…. And this is only the beginning."

Mycroft put it more bluntly. As he bit bruises into his brother's sweaty neck, he said in a deep, menacing growl, "I'll worry about you more than ever now, Sherlock. You've always been a slave to your impulses, and now you've found a new obsession you won't be able to conceal. Men will look at you and know… know what a slut you are."

Hearing the word 'slut' fall out of his brother's normally dignified mouth, Sherlock shivered and climaxed a fourth time. Although blindfolded, he knew that Mycroft's chest and belly had to be dripping with his sperm. "Yes," he gasped.

"You'll want it all the time. Mark my words, little brother. If a decent-looking fellow so much as smiles at you, you'll be on your knees or presenting your arse. I'll be taking extreme measures to protect you from yourself. Irene has so many delightful toys that can keep your body limited to my use alone. Would you like that?"

"Yes!" Sherlock cried. He meant it. It couldn't be any better than this. It couldn't. Repeated orgasms, the pain that sharpened his pleasure… only Mycroft could ever know him well enough to accomplish this type of magic.

Mycroft would have said more, but that searing hot litany was interrupted by his own orgasm. "Oh, Christ, oh fuck! Sherlock!" he cried as he did one final dive into his brother's reddened hole and corkscrewed his hips. Sherlock felt a soft warmth spray his insides and trickle lightly through the seal where their bodies joined. Then Mycroft collapsed onto him and relaxed, chest heaving and fingers caressing Sherlock's hair.

The younger Holmes laid there, dazed and sated. He felt Irene remove the ties from his wrists before briskly massaging them and positioning them gently at his sides. He immediately raised his arms and wrapped them around Mycroft. When he felt the sweat that had soaked through the dress shirt, he smiled. It had been ages since he'd witnessed his older brother coming so undone, and Sherlock felt a surge of affection for the first time since adulthood had hardened both of them.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Mycroft pulled the blindfold away from his eyes, allowing Sherlock to see it all: the dimly lit and luxuriously furnished bedroom, his brother's beaming face, Irene's robed form as she reclined next to them. When he looked at her covered body in clear confusion, she kissed his nose and beamed.

"Delicious as you both looked, I only play with boys. I don't have sex with them."

"But you and Mycroft-"

She traced his kiss-swollen lips with one blood-red fingernail. "Mind-fucking only."

Mycroft rolled off of his brother but remained against his side, one arm and one leg keeping Sherlock 'prisoner'. The younger man reached down to clasp the trouser-covered knee, loving how Mycroft's being dressed made him feel even more naked and vulnerable. His cock twitched in interest, something Mycroft noticed.

"Oh, Sherlock," he sighed. "Irene, I believe we've created the proverbial monster."

"Well, you know what has to be done to monsters." She tweaked Sherlock's nipples without taking her eyes off his crotch. "They must be put away for their own safety."

* * *

In the morning, they put what Irene called a M.C.D. ("Male chastity device," Mycroft translated.) on him. When they showed it to him, he was instantly intrigued by its design: three interlocking pieces made of medical grade polycarbonate material that fit together like a puzzle. It covered his penis and had a vented tip, making it both restrictive and accommodating.

"You'll be able to urinate while wearing it, but not wank," Irene said fondly as she secured the device with a brass padlock. When she placed the key in Mycroft's open palm, Sherlock felt his stomach flutter.

_My brother. My lover. _

"And now your key holder," the elder Holmes declared, finishing that thought for him. After tucking the gleaming object into his trouser pocket- where it would brush heavily against his crotch when he moved- Mycroft took Sherlock by the shoulders and guided him into a firm backwards embrace. "Don't worry. I won't let you suffer. At least not much."

Sherlock was surprised by his own reaction. He'd always resented Mycroft's attempts to interfere with his freedom and control him. But the thought of his brother holding the literal key to –in other words, _supplying_- his pleasure was both hot and liberating. He leaned his head back against Mycroft's shoulder and brushed their cheeks together, relishing the contact. He'd never have imagined that his icy older sibling could feel so warm. So human.

"I'll be watching you more than before," Mycroft murmured.

And for the first time, Sherlock did not mind.


End file.
